For the first time since I was a boy, Betty had to waken me this
morning. As a rule I lie for half-an-hour before getting up, allowing my
mind to simmer over the events of the previous day, and planning how
best I may spend the coming forenoon and afternoon. I had no need to
make out any programme for to-day, however, as I had that all arranged
last night.
I dressed hurriedly, and after spending a few minutes with Nathan, who,
poor man, is abed, I sent off a telegram to Murray Monteith, requesting
him to wire on receipt one hundred pounds on Miss Stuart's account to
the local bank. When I had breakfasted I wrote him a long letter, and
asked him to send me particulars regarding her interests in the Banku
Oil Company. Then I went up and arranged with Mr Crichton the banker as
to her account.
Walking along to the bank, I met Joe on his way down to Betty's. Joe's
jacket is always closely buttoned, and he wears his tweed cap tilted on
his head at the same angle as he would his glengarry when on parade.
His hair is cropped short, the forelock brushed firmly and obliquely
across his left temple, and showing prominently under the stem of his
civilian cap. His trousers are always carefully pressed; consequently
they never show a bagginess at the knees. He is not so tall as Nathan,
nor has he the 'boss' appearance; but I fancied that to-day he had more
than usual of the same serious Hebron expression; and when he gave me
the salute, as he always does in true soldierly style, it wasn't
accompanied by the customary cheery smile. He passed me at the
regulation step, and from the fact that he was carrying a brown-paper
bag bearing the name of John Nelson, Fruiterer, I surmised that Betty
was contemplating an apple-dumpling for dinner.
My business with Mr Crichton was soon disposed of; but it took me some
considerable time to dispose of Mr Crichton. He has a jocose, affable
way with him, a pawky knack of leaving one subject and starting another;
and when he is in a reminiscent mood, as he was this morning, he can be
very dreich and very entertaining at one and the same time. Long ago, of
an evening, he used to play chess with my father. He took snuff in those
days--he takes snuff still, and treats others unstintingly, as Betty
will know when my handkerchief goes to the wash--and when my father had
lured him into an awkward position on the board his little silver box
was seldom out of his hand. My recollection of him at that period is
very hazy, and it is so closely associated with this box that it may be
if he hadn't snuffed I shouldn't have remembered him at all. I notice he
applies the stimulant always to his right nostril, never to the left,
and he has a dainty and a stealthy way of conveying the pinch which
contrasts strongly with that of Deacon Webster, whose recklessness where
snuff is concerned is such that more is distributed on his shirt-front
and waistcoat than is sniffed into the nasal receptacle. On the other
hand, so cleanly and dapper is Mr Crichton that, were it not for the
aroma of Kendal brown which ever lingers about him, you wouldn't know he
used snuff at all.
After a couthie crack, which, in spite of my preoccupation, I enjoyed, I
said good-bye and walked out of the bank, only to fall a ready prey to
the blandishments of Douglas the barber, who inveigled me into his
back-yard to see a cavie of Wyandotte chickens of which, as
prize-winners, he had great expectations. Then, in his draughty lobby, I
had to listen to an account of his first and only interview with Thomas
Carlyle at Holmhill, of his photographing the Chelsea seer and
'snoddin'' his hair; also to a resume of a lecture on the Ruthwell Cross
he had heard delivered by our fellow-villager, Dr Hewison, which pleased
him, as he said, 'doon to the nines.' On reaching home I found, to my
great disappointment, that Dr Grierson had called and had gone away. I
wanted particularly to see the doctor, as I felt he should know that I
had taken his advice and unburdened my mind to the lady of my dream.
When Betty came in to lay the table for my homely midday meal I noticed
she was not quite herself, and that there was something unusual
disquieting her mind. As I have said, I always allow her to unburden
herself to me in her own way and at her own sweet will; but somehow I
intuitively felt that in the present circumstances my rule should not
apply.
As she moved silently out and in I watched her closely, and when she had
finished and drawn out my chair from the table I put my hand on her
shoulder. 'Betty,' I said, 'there is a sadness in your eyes to-day I
have never noticed before. Is there anything worrying you?'
She looked up at me for a moment; then, putting her arms round my neck,
she began to cry, quietly but emotionally. 'Oh, it's Nathan, puir falla,
an' I'm sairly putten aboot,' she said between her sobs. 'It strikes me
he's no' in a very guid wey; an', oh Weelum! if--if ocht tak's Nathan I
dinna want to live.'
It was the first time for years she had, unasked, called me 'Weelum'
without the prefix, and the old familiar way she pronounced it touched a
chord in my heart.
I let her have her cry out, and then I did my best to allay her fears.
She sat down on my chair, and I drew in another and sat down beside her.
'Nathan's not very well, Betty,' I said; 'but he's always been a healthy
enough man, not given to complaining and lying about, and you know
you're so accustomed to see him strong and robust that you are apt to
exaggerate anything which prostrates him and keeps him in bed. The
doctor's not concerned about him to-day, is he?'
'I--I dinna ken for certain. He didna say so to me, but I imagined he
looked that wey,' she said. 'Mebbe I read his face wrang. I'm trustin' I
did, but--but I see for mysel' that Nathan's far frae weel.'
'Yes, Betty, we all know that; but I'm sure there's nothing serious.
He's got a bad cold, a very bad chill, the doctor tells me; but with a
good rest in bed and careful nursing he'll soon be up and about again.'
'I'm dootin' it's mair than a chill, Maister Weelum,' and she shook her
head; 'an' it strikes me that Nathan kens it's something mair serious.
He's tryin' no' to let on to me; but the mair he tries the clearer I see
it. Ay, him an' me have come to that time o' life when we depend a guid
deal on yin anither, an' lately I've noticed that he's been anxious to
do mair for me than he's able. We lippen on yin anither in a quiet kind
o' a wey, ye ken--never askin' or demandin', but aye expectin', an' aye
gettin'. Ay, Maister Weelum, aye gettin' an' aye gi'in', an' it's
through this wee peep-hole that Nathan an' me, an' ithers happily
married like us, get a wee bit glisk o' a heaven on earth.'
I pondered over these words for a moment. 'Betty,' I said, 'that's a
beautiful way of putting it.'
'Ay, it may be beautiful--it may be, I say, Maister Weelum. I'm no' a
judge o' that; but it's true--_an' I feel it's true_; an' the best wish
I can wish ye is that some day my experience in this will be yours.' And
she wiped her cheek with her apron, and smoothed imaginary creases out
of the tablecover with the back of her hand.
'And--and, Betty, you must love Nathan very much?'
'Yes,' she said promptly, 'I love Nathan; but no' so much as I have
reason to, an' no' mair than he deserves.'
'And was Nathan the only sweetheart you ever had, Betty?' I suddenly
asked.
She rose from her chair and turned her face to the window. 'Dear me,
Maister Weelum, that's a queer question to ask! What put that into your
heid?'
'Oh, I don't know, Betty. I've often wondered.'
'Ye've often wondered that, have ye? Imphm!' And she sat down again.
'Weel, as the wean I nursed an' the man I'm prood o', ye'll no' be
denied an answer. No, Nathan's no' the only sweethe'rt I ever had. I
loved anither man before I loved Nathan. I was aboot nineteen year auld
at the time, an' if onybody had telt me then that Robert Frizzel wad
never be mine I wad ha'e gane demented. Nineteen's a careless, haveral
kind o' an age; but the he'rt can be awfu' glad an' joyous then, an' I
must confess I had spurts o' happiness which carried me aff my feet in a
wey I couldna understand later. The sun was aye shinin'; the birds were
aye whusslin'. I gaed to my bed singin', an' I wakened singin'. Oh, I
mind it a' weel. The mistress--your mother--somewey was against it; but
I thocht I kenned best, an' mony a sweet bit stolen oor I had up at that
same gate at the heid o' the gairden there. He was a nice-lookin' man,
was Robert, a bonny singer, an' a great toss amang the lassies, an' to
be singled oot frae amang them a' was in my estimation something to be
prood o'. Weel, I heard something aboot him no' to his credit--something
mean an' dishonourable. Nathan was comin' aboot the gairden even then;
an', though he had never said ocht to me, I could see, an'--an' I
jaloused, an' it struck me that he wadna ha'e dune the same. Weel, the
first chance I got I asked Robert aboot it, an' he juist laughed an'
made licht o't. I telt him I never wanted to speak to him again,
an'--an' I gaed to my bed that nicht an' grat the sairest greet I ever
had in my life. Ay, I juist put him oot o' my he'rt an' steekit the
door. An' then Nathan somewey opened it again, an'----Michty me, Maister
Weelum, your broth's stane-cauld!' And, without another word, she lifted
the soup-tureen and went ben to the kitchen.
I never for a moment suspected Betty of having had a calf-love affair,
and her characteristic recital of the episode was as unexpected as it
was interesting. I asked the question which led up to it almost without
premeditation, and not so much out of curiosity as from a desire to wean
her pessimistic mind away from Nathan's indisposition. Poor body, she
was always prone to meet her troubles halfway, and I feel so sure that
her fears regarding Nathan are groundless that I do not reproach myself
for interrupting her brooding thoughts.
After dinner I went through to Nathan's bedroom and had a short chat
with him. He was assiduously reading _The Christian Herald_ when I
looked past the curtain of his bed, but on recognising me he at once
stopped and took off his spectacles. 'Oh, it's you, Maister Weelum,' he
said, as he laid aside his paper. 'I--I thocht it micht be Betty.'
At the back of the bed, and only partly hidden, was a copy of _The
Gardening World_. I looked first at one paper, then at the other, and
remembering his predilection for secular literature, I smiled. Nathan
smiled also. I made no remark; neither did Nathan; but somehow I am
surer now than ever that Betty is wrong in thinking that he considers
his condition serious.
With Nathan in normal health and at his own fireside it is a difficult
matter to keep the crack going; but with Nathan indisposed and abed it
is well-nigh impossible. True, he answers any questions I put to him,
but he never introduces a subject of conversation, and at his bedside,
talking to him, I have always the strange feeling that he wants to put
his head underneath the bedclothes.
When I had exhausted my news, and was wondering what next to say, Joe
came in, and he had still the serious expression in his eyes I had
noticed on meeting him on my way to the bank.
Joe is of great assistance to Betty at present, and his knowledge of
housework, combined with his readiness to help, places him on a pedestal
and makes him indispensable. I took the opportunity of thanking him for
what he had done, and commended him strongly for his kindly services;
and when I was going out, as an inducement to further exertions, I
quietly slipped something into his hand that brought him to the salute
with a most pronounced jerk.
Nathan was eyeing the stiff-as-starch Joe in surprise, as I gave him a
good-afternoon nod. 'What's wrang wi' ye, Benjy?' I heard him say.
'Maister Weelum's no' an offisher; he's a gentleman.'
'That's exactly why I saluted him, Nathan,' said Joe very patly; and I
was laughing quietly to myself as I re-entered my room.
Betty was what she calls 'bankin'' my fire; and, on looking round and
catching the smile on my face, she wiped her fingers on her dust-cloth
and smiled too.
'Nathan's a wee bit cheerier noo than he was in the foreday,' she said;
and, after a pause, as a second thought, she added, 'at least he's as
cheery as a Hebron could be in the circumstances.'
'Oh yes, Betty,' I said, 'he seems to be in a happy enough mood; but I
think I have heard you say the Hebrons are not what one would call a
hilarious family.'
'No, 'aith no, except Joe, an' him only sometimes--when he shouldna be.
Imphm! Ye never met ony o' Nathan's sisters, Maister Weelum, did ye?'
'No, Betty. I didn't know he had any sisters.'
'Oh, weel, in a wey neither he has, for yin o' them lives in Auchensell
an' the ither twae away in the back o' beyond, somewhere in Glencairn.
They come to Thornhill only aince a year, at the Martinmas fair, an' of
coorse Nathan stays at hame frae his wark, an' we've them doon here for
their denner. Peasoup's a weakness o' the Hebrons, an' they're awfu'
keen on pork ribs, so I mak' my bill o' fare to suit them. An' then, the
time I'm cleanin' up, they a' sit roon the fire, an' Nathan smokes an'
spits, an' his sisters sit strecht up in their chairs, lookin' frae the
fire to the window, an' whisperin' to each ither. Ye see, Nathan brocht
them up. They look on him in a wey as their faither, an' they defer to
him even yet, an' aye wait on him speakin' first, so ye can understaun
their tongues dinna gang juist like hand-bells; no, 'aith no, they do
not. Nathan's fair, but they are dark an' swarthy, an' they a' wear
black dolmans, 'lastic-sided boots, an' white stockin's, an' they aye
come wi' umbrellas in their haun even though the weather's as dry as
tinder. Thomasina frae Auchensell is the auldest, an' she's the only yin
that has a family; an' when Nathan does say ocht it's aye her he speaks
to, an' the ither twae juist sit an' mutter to yin anither, lookin'
quite pleased an' satisfied. I'm used wi' them noo; but the first time I
had them here I was at my wits' end. No' a word could I get oot o' them,
an' Nathan--weel, I didna ken him very weel then either--_he_ could
hardly be seen for pipe-reek, an' it was only because I couldna do the
deaf an' dumb alphabet that I didna try it on them. An' mair than that,
Maister Weelum, here's anither very queer thing. Do you know that their
men--their marrit men, I mean--have never been inside this door. I've
never met them, no' even seen them; an' Nathan--weel, I dare say he wad
be at their waddin's, but I question if he wad stop an' speak to them if
he met them on the king's highway. Oh, I tell ye, they're queer! Ye
micht marry a Hebron, but ye never get into the family.'
'And what about Joe?' I asked. 'Does he join these annual reunions?'
'Catch Joe sittin' in the hoose on a Thornhill fair-day. No, no, Joe's
ower keen on the pea-guns, an' the Aunt Sally booth, an' siclike to ha'e
ony time to help Nathan to entertain his sisters. He's a queer, queer
mixture is Joe; but his he'rt's in the richt place for a' that. Ha'e ye
seen him the day?'
'Yes; I met him on the street, looking rather melancholy, I thought.
You--you haven't put him under the pledge again, Betty?'
'Ye thocht he looked melancholy, did ye? Weel, he's under nae pledge to
me. It's no' that that's putten him aboot. Puir Joe! puir Joe!'
'What is it, then, Betty?'
She hesitated for a minute, and I at once apologised, thinking I was
unconsciously prying into family affairs.
'Oh, it's no' that I'm hankerin' for, Maister Weelum. The fact is, it's
in a wey concerned wi' a friend o' yours, an' I don't know very weel hoo
to begin; but ye mind me tellin' ye aboot Joe gettin' the awfu' fricht
meetin' a lady he thocht was deid an' buried? You an' me made licht o't;
but Joe wadna be convinced, an' last nicht he saw the lady again,
an'--noo, Maister Weelum, this is the queer bit o' the story--the lady
was Miss Stuart.'
'How did he know that, Betty?'
'Weel, he was in the kitchen last nicht when I brocht her through frae
Mrs Jardine's to see your picter, an' he was so putten aboot that he
gaed strecht away hame to the Cuddy Lane withoot sayin' a word to
onybody. This mornin' he spoke to me aboot it, an' asked her name, an'
when I said it was Miss Stuart he nearly fainted. "Same name," he said,
"and the same locket," an' that's a' I could get oot o' him; an' he was
so dazed an' bamboozled that he couldna mind my messages, an' I had to
write them doon on a bit paper. Noo, Maister Weelum, what mak' ye o'
that?'
'Same name and the same locket!' I repeated slowly. 'Whatever could he
mean by that?'
'I dinna ken. I asked him, but his lips shut wi' a snap like a handbag.
If I hadna asked he wad ha'e telt me; the Hebron cam' oot there again,
Maister Weelum.'
'Oh, Betty, it must be a foolish fancy. The chance of Joe having met
Miss Stuart before has, of course, to be considered; but the lady he
knew died twenty-four years ago. Miss Stuart must have been a baby
then.'
'Mebbe it was her mother, Maister Weelum.'
In a flash the possibility occurred to me. I looked quickly and keenly
at Betty, but her eye challenged my gaze clearly and without flinching.
'Ye're thinkin' I'm speakin' in riddles, an' keepin' something back; if
ye do, ye're wrang, Maister Weelum. It was the locket that made me think
o' her mother; it wad be a very likely keepsake for her to ha'e.'
'Betty, my dear, I don't doubt you. I am sure you are telling me all you
know; you have no motive for keeping anything back. I--I am very much
interested in Miss Stuart, more so than in any woman I know. There is
some uncertainty connected with her affairs which, unless it is cleared
up, will be to her disadvantage. I may be thinking too quickly, and the
wish may be father to the thought; but it strikes me that a chat with
Joe would clear the air. He is in Nathan's bedroom. Do you think he
would come in and have a talk with me alone?'
'Oh, I'm sure he'll do that wi' pleesure. But, Maister Weelum, if it's
ocht ye want to ken, ye maunna ask him questions. I ken Joe; he's a
Hebron, an'--weel, ye understaun?'
I quite understood; and when, later, Joe came into my room I was busy
examining a pair of old holster pistols which had belonged to my
grandfather. 'Oh, it's you, Joe! I said. 'You're the very man I want. I
know you understand more about these things than I do, and I should be
obliged to you if you would kindly help me to clean them up a bit.'
'Certainly, sir,' he said with alacrity. 'I'll soon polish them up. But
it's a dirty job; don't you bother with them. I'll see to them in the
back-kitchen.'
In conversation with Betty or Nathan, Joe employs the Doric as they do;
but, thanks to his service in the south and abroad, he is equally
familiar with English as it is read, and in speaking to me he doesn't
even betray the semblance of the Scots accent.
I hadn't bargained for his taking the pistols off to the back-kitchen,
however. This wouldn't suit my plan. Joint operations were necessary for
a crack such as I wanted. Accordingly I suggested we should cover the
better-lit end of the table with a newspaper, and exercise care; and so
it came to pass that in a few minutes Joe and I were up to the wrists in
emery and oil, and our tongues going like Betty's hand-bells.